


Day 4 – Opulence / (1500 – 1800)

by goldtracing



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 17th Century, Duelling, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Luxury, Prussia is a mean prat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:55:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29701596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldtracing/pseuds/goldtracing
Summary: Gilbert has known Francis for long, so he shouldn’t be surprised by his ally’s eccentrics. Yet he can’t help but sneer at the opulence on display.
Relationships: France & Prussia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 3
Collections: Historical Hetalia Week (February 2021)





	Day 4 – Opulence / (1500 – 1800)

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, I managed to completely forget that this week is Historical Hetalia Week. Which is why I must have shit a brick this morning when I found out and am now starting with Day 4.

Metal clanged as it was met by metal, creating a euphoric melody that resonated in Gilbert’s blood. He was completely in his element – that was to say, a fight. Parry, stab, feint.

The moves repeated themselves, combining themselves to a dance that couldn’t be choreographed. The tip of the blade of his opponent narrowly missed his nose, causing a rush of pleasure to run down his spine. In mockery and in delight, he laughed, loudly and from the belly.

Ever quick on his feet, he jumped back when Francis did a particularly brutal lunge. Clearly, he was frustrated. There was a thin sheet of perspiration on his face, with his cheeks red and breath coming out in low puffs. Furthermore, his expression betrayed just how exasperated he was, and desperate.

With a wide grin on his pale face, he taunted: “Now there. Temper, temper.”

He made sure to mangle the French and to adopt the same narcissistic cadence Arthur always used when he believed himself to be morally superior. Prat, the islander was a hypocrite like the rest of them!

Yet that was the finally straw for France. With a yell, he went for the head, the steel of the sharpened blade glinting blue-sliver in the warm yellow light of the room, a dash of violence in the otherwise peaceful place. Without missing a beat, Prussia proceeded to swipe France’ legs from underneath him, sending the kingdom crashing to the wooden parkette.

Then he honed in further, going in for the kill. Alas! his foe chose to make a brave last stand, furiously twirling his rapier at him, batting away the more obvious strikes. If there was something that Prussia liked for than the exhilaration of a duel, then it was an opponent that refuse to go down easily.

Eventually, however, Gilbert managed to fiddle his weapon past the waning defence, shoving steel just below the gilded hilt of Francis’ sword, cutting open dainty fingers in the process. With an elegant flick, it flew in a high arc across the room and buried itself in the wood with a dull thwack.

In a culmination of the whole game, he zeroed in on the defenceless man and took in his appearance. Golden hair was tousled, and those cerulean eyes were blown wide in a manner that gave him a fawn-like appearance. A sneer graced those lips, teeth bared wolfishly – it then vanished when the defeated realised the intentions of the victor.

“Not the face!”, he cried, but it was already to late. In a blur, the sharp edge swiped over a pristine cheek, crimson then spilling in fine droplets on ivory. It made Prussia unwittingly think of a marble statue that had been marred.

With the high of the fight gradually diminishing, his mind slowly regained the acute understanding of here he was. A sharpened as his senses had been moments ago, the concentration in the present had banned his mind the registering the actual purpose of the quarters they were in – the drawing room of a high-born lady, Marquise perhaps, that was currently engaging in all the hedonistic pleasure the royal court of France had to offer.

France remained seated on the floor, inspecting the wounds he had sustained from their spar. Cuts littered his body, the blood ruining the white silk shirt he was wearing. However, they were already closing in the pace France’ economy could afford him, steam raising in soft, ghostly whisps as skin sealed itself.

Prussia had some himself, hair-fine slashes along his arms and torso that emitted pain. He embraced it, allowed it to make the world more vivid and nurtured it along with the anger burning in the pit of his gut.

It was always sharp blades when it came to the two of them. Because dulled edges weren’t as much fun in Gilbert’s opinion and crude in Francis’. Nevertheless, the later was evidently regretting that choice.

“You shouldn’t be so brutal. Every time we do this you act as if you want to slaughter me”, France whined peevishly. Rage blinked in those eyes and was apparent by how he clenched his jaw. A pity that the other couldn’t really bring himself to care.

Over the course of the last few months, he had been slowly consumed by ire – this was just an opportune outlet on one of the culprits.

“And usually, you are able to hold your ground just fine. What would you have had me do? Beat you up with a cushion?”, he shoot back at his generous host, letting the loser get back on his feet on his own.

As France hobbled over to a table, he hissed at his ally: “Don’t act so pretentious. Such cruelty doesn’t suit you.”

He then raised a crystal glass, toped with gold rim to his lips and graciously allowed the red wine to flow past his lips; and promptly winced when the alcohol burned into a gash that wasn’t fully closed yet. Internally, Prussia though he deserved it. Pain and poison comes filled in jewelled goblets and extra-vagrant meals – something that France was evidently yet to learn.

“Cruelty were cruelty is due. Nobody ever learns something from an accommodating teacher. Therefore, it is your own fault that you’ve lost. It’s simply – you’ve grown soft”, he smugly countered as he joined his fellow personification.

A bitter laugh escaped the Frenchman.

“Soft you say. We’ll see that in the upcoming war”, he remarked, narrowing his eyes. An accusation rang with the words, one that Gilbert opted to ignore for the meantime.

“Then tell me, what is this?”, he interrogated and rudely pinched France’ side, what had once been firm muscle now soft, squishy blubber. “Don’t pretend you are humble, now Francis. You’ve allowed yourself to drown in luxury, gluttony making you stuff yourself at increasingly lavish feasts and lust making you spends more nights than not between the thighs of some courtesan.”

Squawking in indignity, Francis tore himself out of the vice grasp and regarded Gilbert with contempt. Then, he expertly schooled his expression into something more pleasant and said cordially:

“Ah, my friend. They do speak the truth when they say that being a Prussian is an honour, but no pleasure. You should desperately learn to appreciate the finer things in life. God didn’t make us for us to wallow in squalor and toil our lives away. That is why art and splendour are ours to command.”

He made a wide gesture to the room that were in. To the high windows with the velvet curtains. To the crystal chandelier and the gold details and the idyllic scenes painted on the ceiling and the oak bed and, and…

“All of this is human craftsmanship, finer in one of its most exquisite forms. Humans are meant to revel in such grandeur. The finer things in life are meant to be enjoyed to their fullest capacity. So when you call me a hedonist, I don’t take it was an insult, rather it is a compliment to me.” 

France has always followed his own logic, one that Prussia never fully understood. Yet despite all the flowery words he used to justify himself, he couldn’t help but sneer at the opulence on display.

It deeply disgusted him. Because in his mind, revelling in decadence and corruption was a symptom of an ailing mind and body. It told of a shallow spirit that lacked any discipline or morals, deciding to give up integrity in favour of chasing frivolously pleasures. He knew for sure that his Fritz would never stoop to the depths of the current Loise XV.

Gilbert also knew that all the pomp and faux-glory was a façade. He had seen rats scurrying in this supposedly most magnificent palace of all time, gotten a whiff of the stench that the nobility desperately tried to hide with ridiculous amounts of perfume. He could feel the storm of war deep in his bones, pinpoint the detail of the ever changing political climate in all the intrigue done here at Versailles.

He wasn’t fooled.


End file.
